


Kindling

by Andersaur



Series: Relight My Fire [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (but not really??//?), Accused murder, As you can tell, Because John's a murderer, Fauns, I'll add tags as I remember them (soz kk), Lots of Google, M/M, Oh and uh, Police, Sebastian's gone and fucked shit up, This fic has no substance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andersaur/pseuds/Andersaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returned from Afghanistan and moved into a cottage in the forest. He desperately wants something to restart the fire that used to be his life. Just when things are starting to look up for him in the form of a new friend, he gets arrested for a hideous crime that he didn’t commit.<br/>Perhaps his fire has gotten a little bit too big.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John was bored.

Not just of the constant deafening silence (weren’t forests supposed to be full of life?) or the dreary weather (whatever happened to the summers he’d been promised?) or the general lack of presence all around him (“vibrant green vitality of the forest” his arse), but of everything.

He was tired of having routines. He’d never been a man for routines, even if the army had forced him to deal with them for his training. Once he’d been put in the field he lost all patience for them because he genuinely had never had one. He’d worked in tents, abandoned warehouses, on helicopters, in the firing line; those were the days. Those days where every day was something new.

Back then, every day mattered. Now they were all merging into one insufferably long and repetitive one. He hated it.

The raging fire that used to be his life had been put out, and he had to accept that, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He just had to start a new fire.

With a frustrated sigh, he slammed his book shut and left it on the table by his chair. He tried the TV again – still no signal. He listened for a second, and, yes, it was still pissing with rain. How wonderful. He considered putting the kettle on to boil again, but it didn’t seem worth it. He’d already tried to see how many cups he could make in five minutes. There was a tally on the back of an envelope still left on the kitchen counter.

Jesus. Was that all his life had become now?

John whined hopelessly and dropped his face into his hands. He didn’t think he’d survive out here much longer. Sure, he’d been good at fieldwork, but not… Not _field_ work. He wasn’t made for bloody fishing and berry-picking; he’d only taken up fishing to please his dad, thank you very much.

He took a deep, cleansing breath, and got up, automatically reaching for the cane balanced against the side of his chair. He wrapped himself up in a ridiculous number of layers, grabbed his keys and useless phone, and headed out the door.

As soon as it slammed there was an almost comically timed clap of thunder. It was the most interesting thing to happen to him in weeks, and that realisation made him sad. After a moment of standing under the small porch he headed out into the dark afternoon for a thorough soaking. Perhaps a touch of sickness would provide him with something different, or at least an excuse to get back into the city.

As he walked, mud and leaves caking his shoes and rain mercilessly battering his face, he used that train of thought to keep himself occupied.

Honestly, he shouldn’t have listened to his sister. She was mental. She always had been. Even if she was paying for him to stay in that cottage, it wasn’t worth it. He was going crazy in there, and suddenly having an entire forest to traipse around in wasn’t _enough_. He wanted to feel the life that wasn’t just the slow-growing veg he’d managed to tease to life in the garden. He wanted bustle that wasn’t just the leaves in the wind.

The novelty of living in the middle of nowhere in a beautifully quaint cottage had worn off pretty quickly, and as soon as he could be bothered to go into London he’d find himself somewhere else.

It was with this thought that he found himself right back at his own door again. A quick check to his phone said he’d been walking for an hour. The rain had just begun to let up but by no means was it dry. He still couldn’t see more than ten feet away. Somehow, drenched to the bone and shivering like a child, he didn’t mind going back inside. He dug his key out and fought with the old lock for a few minutes.

When the door finally did shove open, a series of snaps, rustles, and an eventual heavy thump had him pressed flat against the doorframe with one foot in and one foot out. That hadn’t been thunder. Not even if he tried really hard to pretend it had been, which usually worked.

Once his heart had stopped threatening to batter its way out of his chest, John took a step forwards. Nothing had moved since it had… Landed. He swallowed.

“Hello?” He knew it was a long shot. “Hello? Is someone out there?”

He took another step forwards, wishing the God damned rain would stop for just ten seconds and let the moon come out. He couldn’t see a bloody thing.

“Everything alright?” Again, no reply.

“Listen, mate, it’s really not a good night for this,” he called into the relative silence. He took a step back towards the comfort of his cottage. Nothing changed. He took another step. Nothing changed.

In his head the crack of splintering wood and the thud of something that wasn’t quite a tree echoed again. Jesus, what was wrong with him? It wasn’t going to be a person, not out here. It was an animal. Of course it was a bloody animal. He sighed again and turned around to go inside, but changed his mind as he was shutting the door behind him. He wiped his feet and ran through to the kitchen, plucking a large torch from a basket of them under the sink and heading back out.

He may not be a vet, but he still had the training. Even if he couldn’t save it he could try.

John swept the torch left and then right. The rain was getting softer every minute, but he’d still rather be inside. He tried to remember where he’d heard the noise from, and thought it was straight ahead, but he didn’t himself not to have imagined it all, anyway. Lord knew he was lonely enough.

Still, he started where he thought it had been and worked forwards. Then, when he’d gone far enough, he went right and swept back to the cottage. It was only when he searched left that he made any progress.

It took him two sweeps of the torch beam to make out anything different; the thing was almost completely obscured by the branch that had fallen on top of it. The only way John recognised something off was by catching a glimpse of distinct tawny brown under the pile of rotten wood and bright green.

He shone the light around a few times, but it didn’t seem to be awake and if it was it hadn’t noticed.

“Hey,” John called out, hoping to alert it to his presence. He didn’t fancy a kick in the face from a wild animal. He didn’t get a response. “Can you hear me? No?”

He trailed off as nothing moved, and sighed. He really hoped it wasn’t dead.

After a few handfuls of soiled wood that disintegrated under his fingers, he finally resorted to pushing it from the thickest part at the end closest to the tree. A heave or two later, the animal was free, but still didn’t move; not that John had expected it to. He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead and then crouched down to appraise it, shining the torch over its body. It didn’t have markings or colours he’d seen on any animal before but he most definitely wasn’t an expert. It was pale, a very pale tawny colour, from what he could see through the mud and grime, the fur going dark over what John assumed was a head and shoulders.

At a slight loss for where to start he decided to go basic. It was good to get back into the swing of medicine. He’d forgotten how much he missed it as he held the torch between his knees and tried to roll the creature over, only to get a bit of a shock.

He’d pushed at the waist and shoulder, careful not to put too much pressure on both points, and what had turned over was a person. Or, at least, something with human arms. He pulled his hands away in surprise and took a moment to evaluate. He tried to see any more markings, but it was so caked with mud he couldn’t see anything except light and dark, and who could tell what was just mud? He decided to move on, shining a torch down his waist. Again, there were issues with the mud, so he continued, right down to humanoid legs and definite human feet.

John threw the torchlight at the person’s head. It was almost fully covered by that overgrown hair, and John reached a hand forward to flick away some of the strands. He lost his crouched balance and fell backwards into the mud when he saw a human face behind the flattened waves of hair.

Well, shit.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a naked man in the forest. Right outside his house. Nobody could say the thought wasn’t slightly concerning.

Well, John assumed he was naked because his arms and legs were bare. He really didn’t want to see if the guy was wearing pants or not.

John decided to check for a pulse first, as was the sensible thing. He took the torch in his right hand and used his left to place two fingers under the man’s jaw. It was difficult to focus on any little twitches under his fingers with the rain tapping his hand in a dozen places at once but he was nothing if not practiced at doctoring in difficult circumstances.

The relief at feeling a pulse almost sent him back towards the floor, but he managed to keep his balance this time, instead pulling down his sleeve so he could see his watch and beginning to count. His heart rate was a bit slow, just as he’d expected. John decided he may as well go the whole hog and enjoy his chance to be an emergency doctor while he had it.

He started feeling down the man’s limbs, distinctly avoiding any contact within a ten-inch radius of the groin area. Nothing felt broken, with was a good sign. There were a few things niggling at the back of John’s mind about this man, and a few things that were a bit strange about him, but John didn’t want to pay attention to those. He needed this; he needed _something._

Once he was certain he couldn’t feel anything to badly broken, he decided to inspect the head. He put the torch back between his knees so the edge of the light just managed to reach the man’s face and combed his fingers through soaking knots of hair. He couldn’t comb his hand through for more than a centimetre at a time but each time he pulled his hand out he was relieved to feel nothing wet that wasn’t water. That being said, he hadn’t checked the back of his head yet.

John tried rolling him over onto his side, his back facing him. He took the opportunity to run a hand down his spine, which also felt fine, much to his relief. Next was inspecting the back of his head. As soon as his hand made contact with the matted hair, he knew there was blood. It was too warm, the wetness there was too thick between his fingers. He sighed and checked the pulse again; still alive. Good.

He started gently probing over the man’s head for the wound, which proved much more difficult to find through the clumps of waves with frozen fingers. He was just about to give up when he felt something hard in the hair. His stomach dropped; his first thought was that this man had a piece of the branch lodged in his skull, keeping him awake but unable to move or speak, or something tragic like that that John would never be able to fix. Instead he cleared his mind and tried to pull it out.

What didn’t make sense to him was how when he pulled at the thing, the head in his hand lifted with it. He frowned and tried to tug it out again. Once more, the head came up with it. John frowned harder and felt down to the bottom of the rod, where, after a few poked with the pads of his fingers, he figured out that whatever this was, it was attached. He had another feel – no glue there, either. John sat back, this man’s head still resting in his hands. He used his free hand to roll him back over so he was lying on his back. Then he took the torch and directed it at his head.

John swallowed. He lifted the beam up, and then down, and then up again. Then he shone it down his body again. Then back at his head. Then up further, over the antlers protruding from it. This didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t just leave him here. He was hurt, his _head_ was hurt. He needed medical attention. With an unhappy sigh, John scooped the man up and then picked up his torch.

Carrying him back to the cottage was easy – for as tall as he seemed, the guy wasn’t that heavy. John started worrying about BMIs until he reached the door and got to his true difficulty.

He finally managed to unlock it after giving in and sitting his patient under the porch, propped against the wall. John gave him an anxious glance once he’d turned the light on. Eventually he risked it and went to grab a towel that he draped over the sofa before picking the man up again and laying him on it. When he stepped back to look at him properly… This wasn’t a man. Not a human man, anyway.

First of all, he had antlers. Huge ones, that John was sad it was too late to put Christmas lights on, with sharp ends that he had no doubt could blind him purely by accident. As his gaze swept down over the body a lot more things became clear, including his realisation that this thing wasn’t actually all that muddy. The dark patches seemed to actually be markings.

Dark ones over his shoulders, that looked like little suns with the triangles pointing outwards from them, a few bands down his forearms. Dark ones over his fingers with a spot over each knuckle, dark ones over his feet and ankles that faded back into light tawny halfway up his calves. John traced two fingers over the transition and realised it was skin, just a bit fuzzier. It was soft. He had to resist the urge to start stroking whatever this thing was.

There were dark patches over his waist, also shaped like triangles, but John didn’t want to focus on that, or the long thickets of hair he could see completely covering the crotch. He continued his little study and noticed a collar of the same furry hair growing over his neck and shoulders and leathery soles on the skin of his feet and calluses on his fingertips.

Once his inspection was done, John stood up. When had he ever knelt so close in the first place? He took a few steps back and remembered the head wound. Yes. Right. He had work to do.

It took him half an hour to address the injury, mainly because he kept getting caught up with trying to untangle the beast that was this creature’s hair as he tried to reach the bloody patch. He had managed to find it in the end, and he was glad he had, because that gash needed a good cleaning up and some stitches. John suspected he’d hit a rock, and was incredibly glad that he’d managed to find him. It would probably have infected in a matter of hours.

John poured the dirty water down the sink and left his cloth to soak in hot water. He’d already packed his kit away. Now he didn’t know what to do. Was he supposed to leave the door open and let it leave when it woke up? Would it rather be put back outside in the rain? With that option came John’s realisation that he hadn’t even taken his own coat off yet. He sighed and peeled back his coats and jumpers, hanging each in its appropriate place as he continued to wonder. In the end, he didn’t do anything. Hopefully it would wake up soon.

In the meantime, he fixed himself some dinner and wasted some time watching it sleep. He couldn’t resist inspecting its teeth, which were the same as his. He had a look in his eyes, too, but they seemed fine. John gave in and went to bed, leaving a glass of water on the table by the sofa and leaving the door open a crack so it could leave if it figured out how.

John couldn’t help but smile to himself on his way into the shower. It had turned into a full on grin by the time he rinsed his hair, and he was almost laughing to himself when he peeked into the living room one last time before going to bed. It hadn’t moved, and John stayed for a few minutes to check it was still breathing. John climbed into bed and smiled at the ceiling for a while, too excited to fall asleep. It was still raining outside, but he didn’t mind. For once, he was thankful for the rain.

He’d wanted to start a new fire in his life. Get over the old one, start afresh, but he’d had no idea how. Now he thought he had at least a bit of an idea.

His last thought before he drifted to sleep was that, by some miracle, this creature could be his kindling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know he's supposed to just have muddy feet, but... Yeah. I'm sorry. /shot


	3. Chapter 3

John was woken the next morning by what sounded suspiciously similar to a glass breaking. He sat up in bed, his first thought _“burglar!”_ before he realised what a ridiculous notion that was. He could have left his front door open and gone away for a month and the worst he’d get was chilly bed sheets. It did, however, take a while for him to remember he had company, and while he figured it out he sat and listened.

There wasn’t much noise; practically silence. Every so often would be a faint thud of contact, varying in pitch so much that at one point he genuinely had no idea what on Earth was being put where. There were a few long minutes of listening and thinking and resisting the urge to march out and stop it breaking his things before he took a deep breath and got out of bed.

He approached slowly, making sure to keep his footsteps audible but not loud, and it still startled. He’d heard the noises coming from the kitchen, and so went down the hall to that doorway first. It looked different. Very different. Especially with the deer-man trying to cower behind an open fridge door. The sight was not helped by the mugs hung over his antlers. John smiled.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, holding up his hands innocently. The deer’s wide eyes stared at him from above the door. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”

It – no, _he_ , John reminded himself – flinched. John sighed and pointed to his head.

“You hurt your head. Do you remember?” John smiled encouragingly. When he got no response, he pat the back of his own head in a more direct gesture. “Can I see?”

The deer seemed to wince – John assumed he’d just patted the back of his head.

“No,” John shook his head. He lowered his hands and pointed to his chest, and then his eyes. “Me see. Me, look at your head.”

Its icy blue-grey eyes roamed John’s figure and it snorted defensively, lowering its head so the antlers were pointed more and more towards John. As it rocked on the spot John could just tell it was replacing its feet in a fight stance.

“Alright,” he said, resigned. He took another step back so he was out in the hall. “Alright, calm. I’ll be… Um, I’ll be here. Right here, okay?”

It continued to stare at John until he gradually disappeared through the doorway of the living room. John glanced at the cracked open front door, wondering why it didn’t just leave. Then he remembered what it had done to the kitchen.

Glasses and mugs had been systematically lined up in order of height and colour all across the work surfaces, and plates had been laid out similarly on the little table he ate at. The cutlery had been spread out on the floor in lines, along with all of his vegetables (most of which had a few bites taken out of them and some he could have sworn he’d had more of) and various packets of biscuits. Two of the packets had been opened, but, assuming it had realised there were the same sorts of things in each pack, he’d left the others sealed and put them down to look at them in line with everything else. All of his cupboards had been left open with their few remains on display at the front.

It seemed far too smart not to notice the door open, or at least the draught coming from it. This creature must have stayed by choice. John reckoned it was curious.

He couldn’t blame it, really. He was curious, too, otherwise he’d likely have just put it back where he’d found it once he’d fixed it up. He sighed and settled down into a chair to listen and wait.

It didn’t take too long for it to finish up its search. John could tell when it got bored, because the place suddenly got very quiet. He braced himself for another smash of sorts, but nothing came. As he began to relax he saw a mug float into the hall, followed by an antler, followed by some dark curls, and then, finally, a face. John smiled and sank down into his seat, letting it figure out itself how to leave if it wanted.

It sidestepped its way into the living room with an armful of souvenirs from its search, all the while sticking to the walls. John watched it keenly as it skirted the room, and, even though he wanted to, didn’t offer it a bag. He didn’t want to scare it away. Maybe if it realised he wasn’t a threat, it would come again.

Despite what he believed, however, the deer-man deposited his armful by the front door but didn’t leave. He stared at John for a long time. John stayed completely still. Finally it started to move again, but this time it seemed a less thorough exploration. John felt bad for watching, though he knew better than to stand up when it was already afraid.

Hard to believe it _was_ afraid of him, however, with the confidence and elegance it conducted itself with. John had to wonder if he’d ever be that gracious with a concussion. He doubted it.

The treatment of this room was very similar to the treatment of the last – it pressed buttons and stripped shelves and opened cupboards and lined things up and inspected them inside and out, touching everything. As he went along he gathered another pile of things, this one including a book with pictures, a clicking pen, the TV remote, a baby blue slipper, and a navy blue scarf from the hooks by the door.

All were added to his pile, and John finally managed to catch a glimpse of a fluffy deer tail when he crouched and transferred his new pile onto his old one. While it was distracted, John took a chance.

He stood up slowly. It froze as soon as he moved, but John didn’t stop this time, because he was retreating. He took small steps backwards under the threat of the sharp, mug-infested antlers until he reached the hall. He continued in slow, quiet steps until he reached his bedroom, where he retrieved a large drawstring bag. He grabbed a cream cable-knit jumper from his wardrobe so he could demonstrate how it worked and then slowly returned to the living room to find it gnawing at a stray flap of leather on his armchair.

“Hey,” he scolded, and it instantly jumped away to bare its antlers at John again with some quiet clinks. John fought the urge to laugh at the stupidity of the situation. “Look. Bag, for you. Your things.”

He gestured at the pile that had been collected at the door. It didn’t follow his hand, just continued to stare up at him from under white-tipped lashes.

John sighed again. Was he that intimidating? This deer-man was at least a head taller than him, and it had sharp sticks growing out of his head. He had no doubt as to who would win in a fight. He sat down on the floor anyway. It didn’t lower its antlers with him – he took that as a victory.

“Look. You open it like this,” he hooked two fingers in the drawn hole at the top and pulled it open. “And then your things go inside. See, my jumper, inside. And you close it by pulling these, like this… And you can carry it around. It doesn’t come out.”

John held the bag upside down to show it. He wasn’t sure why he was talking. Clearly it had no idea what he was saying.

“Here,” he put the bag on the floor, jumper still inside, and pushed it over. Its eyes followed the bag, and John was glad to be relieved of the icy grey stare.

He watched as the thing gingerly picked up the bag and then looked at its collection. He could see it puzzling for a moment, and then it seemed to realise what a bag was. It kept John’s jumper in the bottom and loaded up the bag with its own things, John watching with a sad smile. Now it could take everything at once. It wouldn’t need a return trip.

Sure enough, it shoved everything in the bag and went for the door. Once it got outside John heard the fast – if light – thud of a man sprinting away from his cottage. He heard a mug smash on the ground outside. That was when the loneliness finally set in for the first time since he’d come back to England, because suddenly he only had a shocking mess in his cottage to remind him he’d ever had anyone at all.


	4. Chapter 4

John didn’t see his guest again for two days, but they weren’t two days spent doing nothing. Oh, no. He threw himself into sorting his life out, as if this had been just the wake-up call he needed. First he cleared his kitchen – and that in itself took a few hours – and then he tidied his living room. He could fool himself into thinking it was bigger when it was tidy. God, that creature probably had the whole forest as its back garden. What must he have thought of John’s pathetic excuse of a home?

 _No,_ John thought. _No, don’t start comparing sizes with an animal you probably imagined. You’re not senile yet._

When he moved into his living room to start tidying there, he spotted his cane. It was still propped by the door where he’d left it going to help the… Thing. A slow smile spread across his face and he stood up from his kneeling position. A few cautious lunges later he did a quiet chuckle to himself.

A quick check of his hand suggested that his tremor was still present, but who the hell cared when he could bloody _walk_ again? He spent the rest of his tidying session shamelessly dancing around to an old Spice Girls CD of his sister’s, just because he could.

Once his clean-up was done, he decided to go for a walk.

He took his cane just in case, and found a camera already tucked into his coat pocket. When he set out, it was a beautiful day. Not warm, but bright. The wind was still bitterly cold but the storm had given way to a beautiful blue sky, and he decided to take a picture. He was no photographer but he didn’t get many breathtakingly beautiful opportunities like this. He took just one, of the green treetops in the distance under that stunning blue sky.

John tried not to let his path differ from his usual walking route, but his leg wasn’t tired at all by the time he’d reached his halfway point, so he decided to enjoy himself and go a little further out. He decided to ignore the thought that reminded him that this was the most adventurous thing he’d done in weeks. In retaliation, he thought perhaps he’d stand a chance of seeing his guest again.

No such luck.

He tried not to be too disappointed that he hadn’t seen it – after all, if it wasn’t even in any of the nature books he’d been so keen on when he was younger, how rare must it have been? He highly doubted it had been discovered while he’d been away.

Harry would have told him.

Right?

Oh, now he was just being ridiculous.

He shook his head clear and sat down with his dinner in front of a TV that still didn’t have signal. Once he’d left his plate in the sink, he fished out his laptop from the bedroom and sat at his desk. He connected the printer up and put the memory card in from his camera. A few minutes later he smiled victoriously as he hung his new photo on the wall above his desk.

He glanced down at his laptop. Could he be that unprofessional?

Yes, it turned out. Yes, he could.

He went to find and plug in his USB internet connection, his first search (how did it have signal? He probably needed a new TV – when was his pension coming in again?) being “deer man”, which gave him pages and pages of results on “Deerman” – some legend with the head of a deer and the body of a man. Not quite.

He tried “half deer half man”, which got him a lot of people suggesting things like satyr, and centaur, and one person saying faun, which, according to the next answer, was wrong. He knew centaur wasn’t right. Satyr turned up a picture of a human with ram horns, which definitely wasn’t right.

Eventually he gave in and searched “faun”. He went straight to the images this time, and the first two were human with ram horns and goat legs, but the third seemed promising.

It was a pencil sketch of a woman with a deer tail. She had dark patches around the eyes and little twig-like shapes sprouting from her curly hair. It was the only one of its kind amongst the animal-legged humans, but it was enough.

John sat back to stare. There he had it: faun.

-

On the second day, John wanted to go to town. He had a working leg and a topic to read up on and a new drawer of vegetables to buy. The only thing stopping him was his strangling excitement from his discovery that he wasn’t on his own any more, and that was bloody fantastic.

Once he realised how sad and lonely that sounded he grabbed his coat and let without looking back.

John walked all the way down to the closest main road and sat under the little shelter that was the bus stop. He muttered a curse under his breath at the realisation that he’d left his book back at home. With a deep sigh, he slumped down on the bench and crossed his ankles, fingers entwined over his belly.

He watched as the wind beat ruthlessly through the trees, saw how fast the clouds were going. His thoughts drifted along to the faun. He hoped it had somewhere warm – which was ridiculous, because it had obviously been surviving for a while.

His eyes snapped open (when had they shut?) when he heard a familiar little bus rattling along. He didn’t recognise the driver, but that was nothing unusual. He went and settled into the back bench, pulling out his phone to start writing a list. He didn’t want to forget anything today.

The first thing on his list was the library. He had to do some research on this faun thing, and he got the feeling that Google wasn’t entirely the best place for it. He’d need books of myths and legends, not just artwork of fantasies. Next up was the bank, and then the market. He needed money and he needed food. He’d had to throw all of the half-eaten things on the compost.

He spent the best part of the day catching up on what he’d lost. He was due for his weekly shop anyway, and he took the opportunity to buy more bin liners, new bed sheets, a blanket, and a small bag of coal for his tiny fireplace. He put his name down for another, bigger lot to be delivered later in the week. Who had ever decided that cottages didn’t need central heating?

It was late afternoon when John started back for the bus stop. He was walking through the market square, now with people packing away their goods and tables, when he stopped. He wasn’t sure why he did. What was so appealing about vegetable seeds? He wasn’t a gardener. He didn’t know how to garden.

He bought them anyway. They were only a pound for the two packs and he had change to spare.

When he finally got back on the bus, he flopped down into one of the priority seats, not caring to walk any further. He’d done a lot today. He deserved the priority seats. It wasn’t like anybody was going to want to sit next to him, anyway, so he put his bags on the second seat.

When his little home was finally back in view, he felt on the verge of collapsing with exhaustion, and he still needed to put the dinner on. He groaned as he felt his leg twinge. _Nope. No, no, no._ It was meant to be fixed. He’d fixed it.

He stopped short as he approached the cottage. Lights were flashing. Why were the lights flashing? He put his bags down and crept up to the windows. The light stayed on. He swallowed where he was crouched and sat up a little, trying to see inside. He could hear things, now, things shuffling. No smashes or struggles. Light footsteps on the creaking floorboard that he knew to avoid in the hallway.  
It creaked again.

And again.

He craned his head and managed to see the barest sliver of the hallway, along with the tall figure in the shadows from the bedroom that was repeatedly lowering its weight onto the floorboard.

John’s heart stopped beating.

A slow smile spread across his face.

Perhaps things might liven up after all. His little friend had come back.


	5. Chapter 5

When it came down to it, John wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Did he wait for this faun thing to come out? No, that was a stupid idea. It was cold outside, and God knew how long it would stay in there. So, did he open the door and wait for it to leave? No, he’d still have to wait outside. Confront it? That seemed the easiest way. If he was careful.

John carefully set his bags to the side of the door. He couldn’t stop grinning, and was certain he looked quite the twat by the time he finally got the door unlocked. He pushed it open and left it ajar while he put his keys away. With one finger, he prodded the door open and took a few steps into the living room. The visitor still seemed to be busy with the rest of the house, because his living room was exactly the same as it had been when he left that morning.

After a second of consideration, his practical side won over and he moved his shopping inside while he had the chance. He left the door open and began slowly making his way towards the hall. He briefly pondered over whether or not to step on the creaky floorboard and alert the faun to his presence or—well, actually, no. That sounded like the best plan.

John tried to make it obvious he was there, and not make it look like he was sneaking up. He deliberately scuffed the doorway with the shoulder of his coat and tried to make his footsteps heavier, indeed stepping on the floorboard, but slowly. He couldn’t hear anything change, but perhaps he wasn’t close enough.

He poked his head around the door and checked the guest bedroom, but it seemed untouched. His head turned instantly as he heard a distinctly crunchy snapping sound coming from his bedroom. John had to bite back his smile again. Instead, he cleared his throat softly.

The rapid crunches that had gradually been decreasing in volume suddenly stopped altogether. John stayed still and then changed his mind, straightening his posture as he listened hard for any more sounds. He didn’t hear any, but he did see those huge antlers appear. He could see only an inch of them as the faun hesitated, and then the rest began to appear. It was just as he’d seen from the kitchen, but this time the faun looked much less defensive and much more worried. John frowned.

“Hello,” he mumbled to himself, knowing it couldn’t understand. “It’s okay. I won’t… I’m not going to do anything.”

John held up his hands again. The faun shuffled on the spot uncomfortably.

“Alright. I’ll be in the liv—um, I’ll be through there. I go there, yes?” John pointed with his thumb from himself to the area behind him and nodded. He walked backwards until he reached the room and then had to sidestep in order to get to his chair. The wall that appeared and blocked his view of the faun broke the terrifyingly intense eye contact and John gave in, waiting patiently in his chair.

He heard a slow crunch echo down the hall. What the hell _was_ that, anyway?

As it turned out the faun got completely distracted from its investigation. It was five minutes until he made his next appearance, staring at John from the doorway to the living room. There was the green from some hand-grown carrots clutched in his hands. Some of the stalks still had a centimetre of carrot left on them, and some of them had had half of their greens bitten off as well as their orange. When John pulled his gaze from the vegetables, he flinched. The faun was staring him right in the eye, looking particularly confident.

They stared at each other for a while.

John floundered.

“John,” he blurted, making both himself and the faun jump. He cleared his throat awkwardly and tapped his chest. “John.”

The faun looked at John like he was about to projectile vomit all over his hands. John groaned. He patted his chest firmly.

“Me, John. You?” He pointed at the faun. It stared at his finger and kept its mouth closed.

John sighed and sat back. So this thing couldn’t talk. It had the same mouth, but probably some different vocal cords. That neck did seem too slender for a human. He let his eyes slide closed and tried his best not to feel too lonely or insane.

“Yoo-mung.”

John’s eyes opened wide. He turned to look at the faun, still staring at him intently. It looked a little worried. John’s gut twisted as he thought that maybe it was worried about him.

“Yoo… Mung,” it repeated, a little more confidently. It looked at its hand and concentrated very hard, pulling it into the same shape John’s had been in. He pointed at John. “Yoo-mung.”

John genuinely forgot how to breathe. He nodded. “Yes. Yes, good. Human.”

It stared at him again. John felt himself clutching at his last shreds of hope as he drew the word out a bit, emphasising the syllables when he caught its eyes on his mouth. “Hu-man.”

“Hee-yoo-mang,” it said slowly. “Heeyoomang.”

“Human. _Hu_ ,” John demonstrated, pulling his lips as far apart as they’d go so it could see his tongue. He started as it dropped to its knees and crawled right up to him, levelling its eyes with his mouth. John felt his heart hammer in his chest, not even noticing the horn about to poke his eye out. “ _Hu_ man.”

“Human,” it copied.

John smiled broadly. “Yes.”

“Yez,” it repeated, looking up to John for approval. “Yes. Human yes.”

John laughed and the faun jumped back at the unexpected cackling.

“Oh, God,” John clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Human,” the faun tried slowly. John looked disapproving. “Yes.”

John smiled again. He let his eyes roam the strange little markings over the creature, taking in the little sun-like shapes over his shoulders and the bands down his forearms. He was beautiful. He swallowed hard and held out his hand, edging it towards the faun’s shoulder. It watched his hand the whole time and flinched at the contact, but didn’t make any moves to stop him.

John’s hand stroked down a fuzzy arm. When he took it back, a pink tinge to his cheeks, the faun shuffled closer until his arm brushed his hand again. John took the invitation gladly and stroked him again. A quick glance to his face said the faun was very happy with this; he looked like a pampered cat. John’s gut twisted again as he thought about how long this creature could have been alone for.

He slid his hand up to the curls on his head. The faun had no objections this time. His eyes had closed and he was slowly working his way to flopping over John’s legs, he was so relaxed. John grinned and sank his hand into the thick hair, trying to work out all the knots he’d fixed a few days ago.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d spent there just enjoying their own new worlds, but his stomach gave a loud rumble and the faun was up and scrambling back immediately, glaring at John’s abdomen.

“Hush, relax, it’s okay,” John cooed, sitting forwards. “Hungry. I need food. Stay here. Please, stay here.”

John took a second to breathe and then got up, trusting it to stay when he went out to make himself some food. When he got back in the faun was playing with his windows, and he arrived just in time to see the latch unclick. The faun looked at him guiltily and threw his knife onto the floor.

“That’s how you got in,” John mused quietly. He sat down in his chair and kept his eyes on the window. The faun stayed sat below it, trying not to look proud at the tone of John’s voice. “You picked the locks, you little menace.”

He laughed again, earning another strange look from his visitor, before he tucked into his food. He was finishing off his last bite when it finally came to him. The perfect name.

“Faun… A faun that picks locks,” he smiled. He looked up at the faun, who was, again, looking at him like he was about to throw up over him. The faun. His key to restarting his life. His kindling. “You can be Faunlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days we'll find the plot. One of these days.


	6. Chapter 6

The next week flew by in a whirlwind of comfort, teaching, learning, exploring. John had never been happier, although the idea of his best friend being an animal was slightly unnerving. He supposed the best friend thought he was an animal, too, though, so that made him feel a bit better.

Firstly, John tried to teach his company how to read and write. He provided flash cards so he could learn English, and once he had all the resources, the faun was happier to be left to his devices and teach himself. Unfortunately, he learnt his name wrong and refused to admit it, so John had had to change his name to Fawnlock. He couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed. He found it painfully adorable every time Fawnlock got the wrong end of the stick.

Once they had a basic form of language going, things got a lot easier. Tenses were still a mystery to Fawnlock, but John had spent years serving in a foreign country where most of them could speak partial English, so deciphering what he meant was easy. Besides, Fawnlock was an astonishingly fast and eager learner. John supposed that, being as he’d likely lived alone his whole life, it was an essential self-preservation trait to be able to learn.

After a week of staying and sniffing out everything in John’s cottage and struggles with failing to get Fawnlock to sleep in his own bed – John had needed several extra trips to the vegetable stalls of the market and he suspected the latter was because of Fawnlock’s insatiable hunger for heat – Fawnlock seemed to have decided that it was time to take John to where he lived.

Admittedly, John had assumed he didn’t actually live anywhere. The thought was heart-breaking and the main reason John had never questioned letting Fawnlock stay with him. The journey had been… Eye-opening.

Fawnlock’s vocabulary, although widening rapidly, was still limited. As he picked off a vine and chewed at the end of it for a moment, John had to assume he was getting a snack, and he waited. Then Fawnlock pulled the vine from his mouth to reveal a mulched-up tip. John frowned, but continued his silence as Fawnlock started to lick the mush into a pointed shape. His disgust turned into proper confusion when Fawnlock started blowing on it as they kept walking.

John didn’t question any of it.

It was a long walk, far deeper into the forest than John had ever gone before. They spent it in relative silence, with Fawnlock occasionally pointing out something that seemed incredibly exciting to him that John didn’t really understand – he tried to look enthused anyway. Eventually they came to a halt at the foot of an oddly-shaped tree trunk. Fawnlock began to climb.

John stared. It didn’t look too difficult, but he hadn’t climbed a tree in years.

Fawnlock stopped when he couldn’t hear John following. He looked back and frowned. “John with me,” he demanded. He didn’t look back ahead of him until John rubbed his forehead and began to follow.

They were climbing over thick shrubbery, and John didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he fell, so he focused on where Fawnlock seemed to stop just halfway up the tree. When John looked up again, Fawnlock was climbing down the other side. John frowned and climbed faster to catch up with him.

He found that the other side of the tree was only half as tall as the first side. Was it growing up a hill or something? John didn’t dwell on it as they kept walking. Fawnlock was getting faster and faster so they must have been close. When Fawnlock pulled John through a little gap in the thickets of bushes and bounded ahead, John stopped short in shock.

It wasn’t exactly a cave, but it sort of looked like one. There was a big hole in the side of what seemed to be a small cliff face, which Fawnlock had fit a little bed of vines and leaves and even what looked to be scraps of his own fur from the collar around his neck. It was clumped, and John managed to put two and two together and think that the faun moulted. A lot.

Stationed beside the bed was the drawstring bag John had given him and some of its contents (that, okay, John didn’t miss) lined up in height order against the back wall of the shelter. Fawnlock let John hang back and take it all in, but he sped ahead and into the little pocket of stone to search through the ordered collection until he brought out a slab of stone with something a nasty shade of green dried onto it.

Fawnlock held tight to his little stick of vine and the slab as he disappeared back into the bushed, these ones to the side of the camp. John made a quick decision and followed.

By the time he found Fawnlock, he was already painting the markings onto his face. John didn’t have time to marvel over the river he hadn’t known existed, because he had his curious gaze switched over to Fawnlock.

Fawnlock, who was using the shallow bed of the river as a reflection so he could draw green vines over his face with the water-softened paint mixture and the exceptionally thin brush he’d created. John watched from a few paces back as he painted a vine with a few leaves around the dark patch of his left eye and then moved on to paint himself a sort of necklace of vines that went over his collarbone and ‘hung’ just below the dip at the base of his neck.

By the time he was done, there was no paint left on the rock. John frowned as he tossed the instruments into the water and ran to the bushes, searching the floor (once again, John avoided looking at his bum) to pick out some weedy little green-leafed plant. He selected a few white and a few purple flowers to adorn the bases of his antlers, poking them into his scraggly hair, and John found it fascinating to watch the concentration on his face as he wove the green plants together in what he could only assume was the definition of daisy chain.

He put one of the looped chains aside and started eagerly harvesting for another. John had a feeling he’d be there for a while. He sat down.

The next twenty minutes were spent watching Fawnlock loop and connect various types of flowers and plants into pretty little garlands. Once he’d made half a dozen, each in complimenting green, white, and purple shades, Fawnlock carefully lifted each from the pile individually and draped them over his antlers. Then he stood up and turned around, finally meeting John’s eye.

John was overwhelmed by a multitude of thoughts and feelings.

 _Thought:_ Fawnlock was beautiful. _Feeling:_ He loved this creature. _Thought:_ Bestiality was very, very illegal. _Feeling:_ He was sick. Absolutely sick. _Thought:_ Loving it doesn’t mean he’s _in_ love with it. _Feeling:_ He was in love with this beautiful, intelligent, adorable creature.

John locked that trail of thought in a safe and changed direction to the part of the feeling that saw those brilliantly decorated antlers as a crown. He got the strangest feeling he was looking at royalty.

Royalty that lived on his own, in a cave, in the cold? Ex-royalty?

John shook that off, too. Fawnlock’s face was beginning to fall. He’d obviously put all of this on for John, and was expecting _something_. John felt like the worst person in the world when Fawnlock’s smile fell away and he looked at the floor. He stood up quickly.

“No, wait,” he blurted, making Fawnlock jump. He smiled and stepped over, lifting a hand to stroke over a few of the curls and flowers on his head. “It’s… You look…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You look amazing.”

Fawnlock didn’t know that word, but he knew that tone of voice. He beamed down at John and wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. John was on the verge of choking but he hardly noticed. He’d never seen Fawnlock this pleased before, and he returned the hug with what he hoped was just as much affection as he was receiving.

 _Oh, shit,_ John thought as his heart skipped a worrying amount of beats. _I’m in love with a faun._


	7. Chapter 7

John wasn’t sure how long they spent like that, curled together in a warm embrace against the biting chill of the air, but he was certainly brought back to awareness by an odd heat over his head. It was… It was breath, he realised, but that wasn’t all. He felt Fawnlock’s breath over him all the time. There was a pressure over his head with this, like Fawnlock was—

“Hey!” John pulled away and scrubbed his hand over his head. Fawnlock looked confused.

“John?” he asked quietly, looking over John’s surprisingly dry palm.

“Were you licking me?” Now it was John’s turn to look at Fawnlock like he was doing something gross. Fawnlock didn’t understand. “You, lick me.” He stuck out his tongue and pointed at it. “Did you lick me?”

Understanding dawned and Fawnlock nodded easily. “Wash,” he said, demonstrating on the back of his own hand. John didn’t know Fawnlock licked to clean. He thought he always just ran himself a few inches of water in the bath and used it like a puddle or the stream.

“That’s… That’s gross,” John frowned, rubbing at his hair again. It was strange how it felt just like a cat had licked it – bone dry and combed through from the sandpaper tongue. Again, Fawnlock didn’t understand. _Well,_ John thought. _What harm could it do?_

He sighed and stepped back over to Fawnlock, patting his arm and smiling sweetly. “Never mind. Nothing. Come on, let’s go back. Show me your place. Your home.” John gestured back towards the shelter.

Fawnlock nodded and reached up to take off his floral embellishments, but John caught his hand and shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said softly with an encouraging smile. “I like them.”

Fawnlock gave him an odd look, but let the flowers be. Then he slipped his hand into John’s and started leading him back to his camp. John hoped he wasn’t holding on too tightly.

As soon as they were at the little clearing Fawnlock dropped John’s hand and headed straight for his shelter. He pulled out several handfuls of bush vines and creepers and laid them carefully over the ordered collection of John’s things, effectively covering them from the spitting rain that had started to fall. Satisfied, he nodded curtly and grasped John’s hand again to lead him back to his cottage.

 

* * *

 

John had found the whole ordeal fascinating. He could only assume Fawnlock was something important, judging from the show that had been put on for him. He watched the markings that were drawn on so meticulously and automatically, like he’d done it so many times before. John wondered how many years Fawnlock had been doing them for, and how long it had been since he’d last painted them. John got the feeling they were for company only.

The journey home was different from the journey there, but only marginally. In fact, John frequently convinced himself that they were the same, and then he remembered the realisation he’d had. He remembered the way Fawnlock had dressed up for him, and how he’d looked at John like his opinion was the most important thing, and how gently his hand had been held so that Fawnlock was no longer leading but walking beside him.

His heart fluttered in his chest. Fawnlock’s hair and decorations were soaked by the time they got back to John’s cottage. He unlocked the door and went to fetch a plastic bag for them, also collecting a towel that he wrapped around the faun and sat him down on the sofa. He was sad to have to pick out the beautiful flowers from his sopping curls. He wished he’d taken a picture, but he couldn’t take any pictures of Fawnlock. Too risky.

John put the bag by the door. He went to change into his pyjamas for the evening and when he got back, Fawnlock was crouched over next to the door, towel abandoned on the sofa. As John approached he saw him rearranging the chains and flowers on the bag, spreading them out to dry them off. John rested his hand on an antler. He knew Fawnlock could feel the weight. He didn’t seem to mind.

John spent a few minutes tracing his fingers over the sharp spikes of the bone, just watching. Watching Fawnlock was always interesting; he wasn’t sure why. After a little while Fawnlock sat back on his heels and leant against John. He looked satisfied. With a little smile, John stroked his hand down and combed his fingers into his damp hair, trying to smooth it out a bit.

“Come. Telly,” John said softly, patting the side of Fawnlock’s head and gesturing towards the TV. The rain was only a light shower. He hoped it had signal, because it had the other day.

Fawnlock obediently followed John to the sofa. He tried to stay sat at John’s feet, but John was having none of it, and pulled Fawnlock up onto the seat with him. John flicked through the channels until he found one that worked. Luckily it was a not-too-bad crime drama series, and he hardly noticed that as time wore on, Fawnlock slid more and more into John’s body until his head was resting against John’s shoulder, his antlers carefully positioned over his chest and by his head and John’s hand keeping up the delicate combing.

Halfway into the show, John’s hand stilled. Fawnlock noticed.

He lifted his hand and stroked over his own head, feeling how smooth it was. He sat up, and John let him. John also let him switch their positions so that John’s head was leaning against his own shoulder. Then John let him start returning the favour in the best way he knew how; with his tongue. It was weird, but far too sweet for him to put a stop to it.

The program ended and a rerun of an old sitcom came on instead. John decided he could stand it with Fawnlock still at his ministrations.

It was during the first break that the licks slowed down, and they stopped altogether when the show started again, John turned his head and looked up at Fawnlock with a little smile. He tried not to look too pained from the utter heartache in his chest at how _nice_ he was.

“Thank you,” he said softly, patting his hand. Fawnlock didn’t reply, but kept a very serene expression on his face the whole time. He looked conflicted. John frowned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

The faun shook his head and plastered on a little smile, turning back to watch the TV again. John didn’t believe nothing was wrong for an instant, but he’d already experienced how stubborn his new housemate could be. He exhaled noisily and stood up.

“Mm, I’m hungry,” John said through a stretch. “Food?”

Fawnlock’s head perked at that word. It always did. He looked at John. “Food?”

“Yep,” John grinned. “Which one would you like?”

Fawnlock ignored the question and instead leapt into the kitchen himself to scavenge his own delicious vegetarian option. John followed with a quiet chuckle and reheated himself some leftovers. The crunches from Fawnlock’s raw cabbage and potatoes meal drifted through from the living room. TV must have gone off again. Damn thing.

He took a fork and his plate into the living room to sit on the floor next to Fawnlock, just enjoying his company. He’d eaten half of his meal when he realised how silent it was. When he lifted his head, Fawnlock was staring at him again.

“What?” John frowned again, now more annoyed than anything. Why couldn’t he just tell him, for God’s sake?

Fawnlock’s eyes drifted across his face and then back up to his eyes. He slowly leant forwards and brushed his lips over John’s cheek in an excruciatingly gentle kiss. John froze.

He forced himself to swallow the mouthful he had and then put his plate on the floor. When he turned to Fawnlock again, the poor thing’s eyes were wide with nerves. John smiled sweetly to try and calm him down. As he leant forwards himself, those sharp eyes snapped down to John’s lips, but he didn’t move away when they pressed against his.

John went slowly, just kissing against Fawnlock’s mouth. When he finally started to join in, John started moving a little more, making things a bit more exciting but still keeping it soft and slow and sinfully romantic.

A sharp knocking on the door had them both jumping out of their skins and pulling apart.

“Oh… Fuck. I mean, damn. Hold on. Go and hide.” John gestured to the bedroom urgently, relieved when Fawnlock followed a command he surely didn’t understand. John seemed frantic, John _was_ frantic. Nobody had ever knocked on that door before. Nobody that wasn’t the postman, and it was far too late for that now.

When he gingerly opened the door, a policeman was staring back at him. “Dr. John Watson? Police. I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In advance, Richard Brook is only mentioned once. Don't want to get any hopes up. x3

John was in shock. He didn’t understand. He’d never even _heard_ of this Richard Brook man, how could he have killed him? He lived in the middle of bloody nowhere, for God’s sake. It took all of his willpower not to panic and start struggling, but the realistic part of him knew that thrashing when one had been arrested for murder was not the most sensible course of action.

He turned around so they could handcuff him as they reeled off his rights, and caught a glimpse of Fawnlock staring with wide eyes from the doorway of his bedroom. John shook his head minutely, and he disappeared. He could only hope the faun had gotten the right idea and was at least planning to escape out of the window, because before he got another chance to check, he was turned around and walked back towards a waiting police car.

They patted him down in a short frisk search with a little clear plastic bag ready. He assumed it was for the possible contents of his pockets because when nothing was found the bag was tucked back into the arresting officer’s pocket. He must not have been as calm as he felt, because there was a voice next to him telling him to breathe deep and stay calm. He wasn’t sure which direction it was coming from but he was bloody well going to listen to it.

When he had his head ducked into the police car, he felt a little better. Having the weight taken off his jelly knees was possibly the most comfortable experience he’d ever had – and it was in the back of a police car during his own arrest. Wonderful.

The journey was agonisingly long. His bum had gone numb after just half an hour on the hard plastic, and his hands only responded with a dull tingling sensation as he tried to move them, not to mention the ache in his back from having them held behind him. There was a partition between him and the two officers in front, but he tried asking them anyway.

“Excuse me?” John leant forwards as best he could. “Where are we going?”

John wasn’t surprised when he didn’t get an answer, but he hoped that maybe he hadn’t spoken loud enough.

“Hello? How much longer will the journey be, please?”

When he got no reply to that, John started to get nervous again. What if they weren’t real police officers? Had he just given himself over to a kidnapper? Or, worse, some sort of crime ring? What sort of criminals would want to kidnap _him?_ He had nothing to offer them. Nothing except himself, and didn’t that thought just set his stomach churning again?

The next thing he knew there was cold wind in his face and ground under his backside. It took him a second to register the oxygen mask being hooked over his head and the blanket that had been draped over his shoulders. He lifted his hand – free hand? – up and tried to pull away the mask.

“No, Dr. Watson. You’ll want to keep that on.” A paramedic crouched down next to where he was sat by the motorway and gently pulled his hand away. When he looked around, there was his arresting officer sat beside him and handcuffed to him. John lifted his knees and rested his forehead on them, closing his eyes with some deep, calming breaths.

“What’s happening?” he muttered, turning his head to see the medic.

The older man gave him a tiny smile. “You had a panic attack. Everything’s alright now, but we’re going to take you to the police station in the ambulance to make sure you’re alright.”

Police station, ambulance… Oh, of course. Murder. Jesus, this was messed up. He closed his eyes again until he felt less nauseous and then sat up straight with a little nod. In response, the paramedic helped him up and into the back of the ambulance, officer trapped by his side.

“If you’ll just get up here for me, and lie down,” he instructed, gesturing towards the bed. John followed. “It’s probably not necessary but these seats are for me and your policeman. Are you still experiencing any loss of breath, nausea, or dizziness?”

John shook his head as he lay back, once again pulling the mask down to rest under his chin. “Where are we going? There was a police station in that town ages back.”

“Put that back on, please. I can’t tell you that, though, I’m afraid. I’m here to keep you well.”

The paramedic put a pulse oximeter on John’s index finger and then sat down. John closed his eyes with a sigh as the doors slammed.

“Where are we going?” he tried asking again, this time looking at this police officer.

“Marylebone, in London,” he answered clearly. “I’m not at liberty to divulge any more information at this point.”

John gave up and returned his gaze to the ceiling, putting the mask back over his mouth. This peg was getting very annoying. It was all he could do not to fall asleep in the comparatively luxurious comfort of the ambulance.

 

* * *

 

By the time they arrived, John had had the mask and blanket taken away. They’d kept the pulse oximeter on, but that came off once the ambulance slowed down, too. The handcuffs were replaced on his own wrists at his back for his walk off the vehicle and into the station, where he was taken to a holding cell to wait. He was waiting for a long time.

When he checked the clock on his way to an interview room, he’d only been in there for half an hour. He tried to rub the feeling back into his hands as his handcuffs were taken off, settling himself as comfortably as he could into the plastic chair provided. It was a small room, with one chair on each side of the wooden table, but it had windows. John suspected that if it had been light, it’d have made for quite a bright and refreshing little room.

It was only a few minutes before an officer in a suit came in with what John assumed was a recording device. It was placed on the table between them. The man put down a thick file and then pressed a button on the thing, turning on a red light. Definitely a recorder.

“D.I. Samuel Wells questioning Dr. John Hamish Watson, arrested on suspicion of murdering Mr. Richard Brook. Time, eleven hundred hours.” Wells finally looked up at a bewildered John and then flipped open his folder. He picked out a photo and slid it in front of John. “Do you recognise this man?”

John took his time scrutinising the picture. It was a close-up of the face of a young man. “No.”

“Do you recognise any of the men in these pictures?” The detective brought out six more pictures, all of the same man, and spread them in front of John.

John took his time again, making sure to study each one in turn, but eventually shook his head. “No.”

The photographs were collected in and put in a pile to the side.

“How about any of the men in these pictures?”

Wells brought out four more photos. John swallowed hard as these were placed in front of him, one by one, each depicting an unrecognisably mangled body. It was difficult to tell which of the many and varied wounds and blows had been the fatal one. He closed his eyes for a second to push away some irrelevant memories and then looked through them.

“No,” he concluded, looking up to meet the officer’s eye.

The next question came quickly. “Where were you on the night of Monday 11th February, Dr. Watson?”

John had to think. It was a week earlier, near enough. “I was at home. It was raining, and I was trying to fix my TV.”

“All night?”

“For the evening, yes. I gave up and went to bed with a book.” John was very confident about this.

Wells sat back. “Are you certain, Dr. Watson?”

“Yes.”

“Lying to me can incur additional charges against you, you’re aware.”

“I was at home on that night, sir.” John’s expression went stony.

The detective seemed very vaguely amused. “Tell me, do you have siblings?”

“I… I have an older sister, yes,” John nodded.

“But no brothers?”

“No, sir.”

“Hm, then perhaps this will jog your memory a bit.” D.I. Wells sat forwards again and leafed through the file, pulling out a black and white CCTV image. He pushed it across to John.

John felt like he was about to pass out again. It was a slightly blurred photo of a hooded someone poised to kick a figure curled up on the floor. The second picture was a close-up of the attacker’s face.

His throat went dry. Why the hell did the attacker have his face?


	9. Chapter 9

After the interview John was told to wait in the room, but he hadn’t been told why. Being honest, he wasn’t really thinking about that part of things when he had bigger problems to worry about.

He had a feeling the questioning had gone badly. They had very clear evidence that he had brutally assaulted and killed an innocent man last Monday evening; the fact that he was telling them he had no memory of it, and no proof that he hadn’t actually done it, wasn’t looking good for him. Apparently his living half the country away from the site wasn’t enough evidence. If that wasn’t enough, his bum was starting to go numb again.

He wriggled on the seat but stayed put, not willing to get himself in any more trouble. The door opened a few minutes later and another man came in, this one in a suit without a jacket, holding another folder with two pens in his breast pocket. He smiled at John, and John wasn’t sure how, but it became clear that this man wasn’t a police officer.

“Evening,” the man greeted, pulling up the chair. John didn’t reply, but he did offer a small smile back to be polite. “I’m Dr. Garner. I’ve got a few tests with me here. I’d like to say they’re nothing major, but if anything substantial is proven then it will go to court as evidence when you’re tried.”

John nodded. “What tests are these, exactly?”

“They’re mental health assessments,” Dr. Garner supplied, picking a few sheets out for him and passing over a pen. “Take as much time as you need.”

John frowned as he sat back to read the questions. There weren’t too many, and they were all closed questions with simple “Yes” or “No” answers. John assumed these officers thought he must have had some sort of personality disorder judging by some of these questions.

_Have you recently or at some point in the past experienced a period of time during which you didn’t feel like your usual self and/or you felt unusually hyper or “high” that you got into trouble because of your extreme hyper behaviour?_

_Have you also experienced at a separate time a Major Depressive Episode as defined by feeling slowed down, overly tired, or a noticeable loss in energy?_

_When experiencing an episode like the one mentioned in question 1, do you feel that it interferes with your ability to maintain your normal routine or function at usual capacity?_

John ended up answering “No” to every single question. When he moved onto the last paper, he had to refrain from rolling his eyes. This one seemed to be centred on panic attacks and his history with anxiety disorders. He’d have answered “No” to all of those, too, if it hadn’t been for his mishap earlier. Oh, and his haunting military past.

When he was finished the doctor left and a policeman he didn’t recognise came in to handcuff him again and lead him back to his cell. He had to stifle a yawn as best he could with his shoulder as he unlocked the gate for him. Truthfully, he was just thankful that the cuffs had been removed again. He collapsed onto the little bench, exhausted, and flopped sideways. He was certain he was meant to have a mattress but the pillow was good enough.

John curled up against the wall, resting his head on his frankly _stinking_ pillow. This concrete slab was freezing, and he was too tired to ask for a blanket, but he tried to get some sleep. The anxiety of his night had worn him out so much he was certain he could feel the bags under his eyes getting heavier each time he blinked.

He should have suspected that he’d have a nightmare.

It had been a long time since his last one, but he wasn’t stupid enough to assume that they’d just gone away. He started awake with a gasp so fast and desperate that he felt his throat burning – or perhaps he’d been screaming? In any case, there seemed to be an officer smashing his baton between the bars of the cell and barking out his surname.

“Sorry,” he breathed, rubbing the cold sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand and sitting up. He couldn’t remember what he’d dreamt. He always remembered. That damn constable had shaken it out of him, probably. “S-sorry. Prone to nightmares.”

“Mm,” the officer on duty frowned at him. “Would you like some water? You’d have been due a drink, anyway.”

John tried a polite smile. “Um. Yes, please. I wouldn’t mind one.”

The water cooler was just on the other side of the room, but John still tried to use his time wisely. He practiced one of his old deep breathing exercises until he heard the footsteps approaching again. When he opened his eyes there was a disposable plastic cup of water being offered to him through the bars. It took him an embarrassing two goes to stand up.

“Thank you,” he mumbled as he accepted the drink. It was cold against his fingertips, and not at all a pleasant cool when combined with the chill of the concrete slab that was his bed, but it soothed his throat somewhat.

“Welcome.” The officer returned to his desk. John thought he must have been one of the nice ones.

“How long am I going to be held here?” John called. He braced himself for a bad answer.

“Anywhere up to ninety-six hours,” came the reply. John blanched.

“Ninety-six hours? Is that… That’s four days.”

“For indictable offences like murder, that’s the maximum we can hold you without charging you, but I daresay you’ll be charged and given a court hearing very quickly and then put on remand.” The voice floated through the bars of John’s cell, and he could almost hear the shrug.

“No chance of bail?” John dropped his head into his free hand. “It’s because I live so far away, isn’t it?”

“I shouldn’t really tell you anything else. Try and go back to sleep. Put your cup just outside when you’re done.” John could hear the command in that voice, and he didn’t say anything else.

Remand… He was going to get sent to prison until his trial. Sent to prison. Until his trial. His trial, that could take anywhere up to a year to roll around. He couldn’t go to prison. Jesus. No. This wasn’t happening. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted his boring little cottage as much as he wanted it right then.

“Can I have a blanket, please?” John asked, forcing his voice steady. He heard chair legs scrape the floor. Footsteps, keys, a lock, some faint rustling, a latch. The officer appeared with a worn blanket that John guessed might have been blue once upon a time. He accepted it from between the bars and tried to get comfortable again, but he stood no chance of falling asleep after all the disruptions.

He knew what the officers were doing; gathering up their evidence for a court hearing that would send him to _prison_. Shit, he had to stop thinking like that, or he’d probably have another panic attack that would only make things worse. He had to think of something sensible to do. He needed a lawyer. That was what he needed. Where the hell would he get a lawyer? Who would believe his story?

God. This was such a mess.

The more he tried to steer his thoughts from the worst case scenarios, the more his thoughts just went in a full circle, always right back to Fawnlock. John supposed (hoped) that he was just as scared for John, but that he was at least planning on staying the night. He deserved somewhere to stay, John thought.

This brought along with it the realisation of possibly the worst thing about his situation: he’d probably never get to see Fawnlock again. He’d wished for excitement, but this was too much. He’d had enough now; he wanted the peace back. His fire had gotten too big. He’d preferred it when it was just a scrap of kindling, when he was merely nursing an old flame back to life.

The thought of not having Fawnlock didn’t sit well. John finally gave in, broke down, and cried.


	10. Chapter 10

Sometime the next morning, a plastic tray of food was deposited through John’s door. Once he got up the will to see what was on it, he mostly wished he hadn’t. There was a tiny plastic fork lying in a groove down the centre. In four quarter-shaped sections sat a dry piece of toast, two barely fried eggs, a small dollop of baked beans, and a rasher of bacon that took a little too long to recognise. He ate the more cooked parts of the eggs and got the toast down with some help from the beans, but only because he hadn’t gotten to finish his dinner the evening before. He’d been starving.

Once he was finished he requested another cup of water and then returned both the tray and the cup together, leaving them by the door to his cell as he’d been instructed before. Then, feeling a bit more energised and ready to face the world again, he returned to his bench to fold his blanket and smooth out his pillow.

“Watson.” John’s head perked at his name. A different officer appeared in the doorway, this one with grey hair and a friendly face. John wished he didn’t look so nice. Maybe then his situation would have been easier to handle. “Your court hearing is coming up this afternoon. Anyone you’d like to call? Lawyer, family?”

John thought for a moment as if he could actually afford a lawyer, before settling on: “My sister, please.”

The detective nodded and unlocked his cell. He handcuffed a passive John and led him down a few seemingly disused corridors until they were in another bright concrete room, this one complete with a writing desk and payphones lining the walls.

His heart leapt at the sight of the desk – maybe he could send a letter to Fawnlock, maybe he could explain, maybe he could say goodbye because this really wasn’t looking good for him – but there would have been too many complications. They’d wonder why he was sending a letter to his own empty house, and of course they’d read it before they sent it. Maybe they’d try and find this ‘Fawnlock’ and question him, and then they’d be on the lookout for him when they couldn’t find him. _Suspicious,_ they’d say.

No. He was better off just calling his sister.

Once his hands had been freed he took his time remembering the number correctly, because he’d only get one shot at this. He could only hope she picked up. It was just his luck that his one phone call rang through an empty house.

“Hi, Harry, it’s John. Um… Okay. Something bad has happened. No danger, don’t worry, just bad. I don’t know how. I don’t know what’s happening, but… I think they’re going to—well. I just wanted to let you know that if you don’t hear from me for a while, don’t worry, alright? I guess I’ll call you when I can. Okay. Bye.”

John’s heart sank as he hung up the phone. His hands were bound again before he had time to realise what was happening, and he was being gently ushered back towards his cell. When he had been returned he tucked himself back under the blanket and covered his face with his hands to wait for this hearing that would most definitely send him to prison for a crime he didn’t remember committing.

Jesus. Maybe he _was_ insane.

John spent the next few hours wallowing in self-pity before he heard the door clunk open again. He had to admit it wasn’t the most productive use of his time, but it wasn’t like he had other pressing matters he could attend to. He forced his eyes open, trying to keep his thoughts more hopeful; masochism didn’t get anybody anywhere. There had to be something he could do. When he sat up and looked around there were two officers looking decidedly indifferent coming to open his cell. Strangers, yet again. How many people worked here, anyway?

“Get up, please, Dr. Watson,” the taller one said. John followed the simple instruction, if reluctantly, and soon found himself restrained and being led away again. His wrists were going to bruise badly from all of these bloody brutally tight handcuffs.

It was almost calming to be able to think of normal things like bruises, actually. The last week or so of his life had been a whirlwind of events that he was still mostly convinced he’d hallucinated, especially considering his newfound insanity. For God’s sake, he’d managed to forget that he’d bloody _killed a man._

While his body had been going around being a criminal, his mind had been off gallivanting in the forest, plucking some flowery fairy tale deer creature out of the corner of his imagination to make him fall in love with. _Oh, shit_. John flinched. _No, not fall in love with. Um… Spend time with. Befriend, yes, that’s a better word._ He’d managed to dream up his own little world to live in while he went crazy. Well, nobody could say that insanity hadn’t been kind to him, could they?

It turned out that the drive to the local court was a short one, thankfully. Neither John’s bum nor his hands had enough time to go numb, which he had to consider a bonus as he got out and arched his back. As soon as he saw the building, however, he felt his feet go numb. The seriousness of the whole situation set in: he could actually go to prison today. Well, he _would_ go to prison today. He had no evidence to support his case, perhaps not even the mental health assessments he’d taken.

There was a cold slab behind his legs, under his thighs. He wasn’t sure what had happened but when he opened his eyes he was sat on a stone bench outside the courthouse, across the car park from the police car that had brought him in. Another panic attack, then. Or, rather, _nearly_ another panic attack, as there was nobody else here and his accompanying officers didn’t look very worried. Just a little bit of a scare? Or maybe they just genuinely didn’t give a shit. Mm, that was comforting.

“Are you alright now, Watson?” Taller officer again, though his face said he didn’t care for an answer. John just nodded and stood up. “Good.”

John couldn’t help but feel that there was probably some sort of right he had to get checked out by another doctor again just in case. He wasn’t certain enough to take anyone up on it. Besides, all it would do was buy him time to stew in his own doomed juices. He didn’t much fancy that.

His case wasn’t called for two hours. He was sat in a little room with a single chair and a window and told to wait, hands still bound. A supervised toilet trip was offered, which he politely declined. Not long after that the door opened again and another police officer he didn’t recognise beckoned him over.

John took a deep breath and tried to keep calm as he was walked through to the hall that would, most likely, ruin his life.

 

* * *

 

Organised chaos would have been the term. John had barely said ten words in the entire hearing before it had happened. Their irrefutable CCTV still was just being presented when an official-looking older man in a black suit had come bursting through the main entrance to the courtroom and walked very deliberately up to the judge, whose face said that she at least had some sort of idea what was happening, even if everyone else’s were saying otherwise.

The suited man hurried straight to the judge’s side and handed her a post-it note.

“Hearing adjourned.”

John blinked at her. The entire courtroom gaped in unison. All she did was scrunch up the note and walk back out. Mr. Suit pulled another from his pocket, glancing over it presumably to check it was the right one before handing it over to the usher. The whole room remained relatively silent as messages were passed around and people began to slowly filter out. John himself was led back to his waiting room, where he thought he’d be for the next couple of hours, but it was minutes before a tall man in a grey suit came to join him.

John thought his hands looked too empty, or something was missing. Something about him looked off. He wasn’t sure why.

Either way, John stared. Was this normal procedure? God, no, of course it wasn’t. He’d seen the faces of the people in that room.

“Dr. Watson,” the man smiled. He put his hands in his trouser pockets. John frowned. “Sebastian Moran. Let’s make a deal.”


	11. Chapter 11

John was almost certain a little bit of pee came out when this Sebastian Moran pulled out a keyring with two little keys on it. The man held it up between thumb and index finger and jingled them gently. He had a disturbingly proud smile on his face, but all John could do as he kept talking was stare.

“Sorry for that interruption, by the way. I wasn’t expecting things to get so far along, but the traffic was pretty bad on the way over here – not to mention I had my own fair share of distractions. Fucking hell, John, you could at least try and look a little bit pleased.” Sebastian crouched down and picked out one of the keys, but John flinched and snatched his hands away from his touch. Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s the keys. To your handcuffs. What the hell do you think I’m going to do, _unlock_ you to death?”

John frowned, now more irritated as a blush heated his face. “That wasn’t my main concern, if I’m honest.”

“Then what… Tell me. We don’t have much time.” Sebastian crossed his arms and stood up, staring down at John with an impatient frown on his face. In the light from the window, John noticed the scar running down his face as it shone white against his tanned cheeks. It struck him odd that he hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe he’d used makeup.

John blinked hard and averted his gaze, but Sebastian had clearly noticed he was staring. Luckily, he didn’t seem willing to comment just yet.

“It’s more the fact that an entire courtroom of people just fled so a stranger in a suit could come in and help me escape a murder charge,” John replied, eyes flitting over the suit again. He had to admit, it was a nice suit.

Sebastian just rolled his eyes, letting his arms fall back to his sides. “Please, John. It wasn’t a courtroom of people, it was the entire building. I’m not that unprofessional.”

John blinked again. “You what?”

“I said I’m not that unprofessional.”

“No, before that.”

“The whole building?”

John swallowed. “Are you serious?”

A little grin spread across Moran’s face. “Dead serious.”

“Who the fuck are you?” John asked firmly. His hands clenched unconsciously into fists, and Sebastian noticed that, too, with a faintly amused glimmer in his eyes.

“I told you. Sebastian Moran.”

“Is that your real name?” John couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something wrong with this picture – and it wasn’t just the missing briefcase, or the pissing scary scar on the stranger’s face, or even the fact that a post-it note had emptied the entire building. He just looked far too comfortable.

“Yes,” Sebastian said simply with a curt nod. His arms crossed again.

“No. Be straight with me. I’m not in the mood today. Is that your real name?” John spoke in a very measured way, trying to keep calm and not kick this man between the legs.

Sebastian sighed and his chin dropped to his chest. Now he looked bloody _bored_. “For God’s sake, Watson, it’s my real name. Those twats think I’m Tim Foster. Happy? Can I unlock you now?”

Could he unlock him now? Could he fucking unlock him now, after admitting that he’d used a fake name to break into a court and was now releasing a prisoner that was already on charge for murder?

“You’re hilarious,” John said light-heartedly, but his face was stern. “Really, you’re truly hilarious. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“This again? God. Alright, John. I’m going to explain it to you one more time, and you have to listen. Everything I’m about to tell you is the truth. Does that make sense?” Sebastian slowed down and slapped on a patronising smile at the last question.

“Piss off,” John muttered sourly. Sebastian chuckled. Then he crouched down so he was below John; trying to pose as little threat as possible, he supposed, though he wasn’t sure why.

Moran took a second to breathe before he began. “My name is Sebastian Moran. I’m here under the alias Tim Foster. I stopped your hearing and stole the keys to your handcuffs because I have a little deal to make with you, and, whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me. So you can either give me a smile and thank me for being such a generous person and having the mercy to release you, or you can continue to be an irritating bastard and I’ll just shoot you into submission and drag you with me.” He said it so easily, as if he hadn’t just pulled out a handgun and wasn’t tossing it between his hands in an odd juggle of keys and illegal firearms.

John tried to swallow, but what felt like a large majority of his saliva ended up down the wrong hole and he ended up choking instead. Sebastian chuckled again at the reaction, still tossing his playthings from hand to hand. Once John felt a bit better, he held his hands out.

“Good boy,” Moran praised patronisingly, catching both objects with a victorious flick of each wrist. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers and slid from the table again and, in one fluid movement with two satisfying clicks, John had his hands back.

“Jesus,” he grunted to himself. He hadn’t realised how unpleasant handcuffs were until he’d been stuck in them all the time. He rubbed the purple bruising around his wrists, trying to get some feeling back into them while Sebastian was talking.

“You stray from my side, I shoot you. You shout for help, I shoot you. You dodge my bullet, my backups will shoot you. Is that clear?” He barked the commands with so much ease that John almost believed he was being told to sweep the floor. John couldn’t help but be reminded of his army days. The orders certainly sounded familiar, if slightly twisted.

He nodded his stony agreement and leant forwards in his seat, at first just giving his body time to stop his legs from trembling. Once he realised what was happening, however, it was more to look at his leg in wonder. _Talk about a delayed reaction_ , he thought to himself. He’d forgotten his cane again, and not even on purpose this time.

“Watson,” Sebastian barked, entirely unamused by John’s sudden stop. He cocked a mocking eyebrow at him when his head snapped up in shock. “Get up and follow me. Don’t make me shoot you, alright? It’ll just be a fucking bugger to clean up.”

John didn’t say anything. He flexed his toes to ease the nervous jolts going through his legs, and then stood up much more firmly than he’d expected to. Moran still towered over him, but so did most people and there wasn’t much he could do about that. With an impatient glance at John – obviously checking him for signs of a fight – he turned around and kicked the door open. In a blink, he was gone. John had to run to catch up.

Moran had been right about one thing; the entire building was empty. It was eerily quiet and he was sure he’d felt a draught on his way out of the courtroom. John had to bite his tongue to refrain from muttering to himself.

John was led over to a plain black car. It was inconspicuous, even with the tinted windows, but it was the only black car in the car park and he just knew it had some sort of tracker or gun storage unit or other such technologies concealed in it somewhere. Nevertheless, the threat of getting shot hung at the forefront of his mind and he forced himself to slide into the backseat. When he looked out of the window, the car park was full. Seriously, where had everyone gone? Who the hell was this Sebastian Moran that he had the power to do that sort of thing?

He sighed and flopped back against his seat.

“That’s it, Johnny,” Seb smirked, catching his eye in the mirror. “We’re going all the way across London. Might be smart to rest your eyes, because if I’m being honest… You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

John frowned at him scornfully in the rear view mirror and happened to catch his own reflection as he did. He didn’t hear Moran’s self-satisfied chuckle, mostly because he was so taken aback by the sight of himself.

Bags under his eyes, several new wrinkles on his forehead, slight layer of grime covering every inch of him. Christ, he looked like a bloody street-dwelling murderer now, didn’t he? He sagged a little bit in his seat. Stress. That was all it was. Just stress.

Resigned, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Try as he might, though, sleep wouldn’t come. In the end he stopped trying and spent the hour thinking about Fawnlock instead.


	12. Chapter 12

John awoke with a start and batted instinctively at his face, where he’d felt some sort of bug hit him. Once he’d blinked everything into focus, he was greeted with the sight of a ball of scrunched up paper settled innocently on the seat next to him and a kidnapper sniggering in a decidedly not-innocent way in the front seat. The car had come to a stop.

John growled to himself and picked up the paper, chucking it as hard as he could back at Moran’s head. His aim was perfect, but Sebastian had seen that reaction coming and had ducked out of the way, still laughing mockingly.

“Twat,” John muttered, rolling his newly stiffened shoulder. “I thought you were some sort of professional.”

“Oh, I am,” Moran replied keenly and with a careless shrug. He opened his door. “Aren’t I allowed a bit of fun? I did just rescue you from a murder charge.”

“No, you kidnapped me from my own court case. I’m not sure that’s quite the same,” John snapped, following Sebastian from the car. “Where the hell are we?”

Sebastian shrugged again. “My office.”

“Your office.”

“Yes, my office. Got a problem with that?” He kicked John’s door shut and locked the car.

John busied himself with squinting sceptically up at the building they’d parked in front of. “It’s… It’s a bowling alley.”

“No, it’s not,” Moran frowned, crossing his arms. John wondered how he managed to look so offended, and decided very quickly that he was insane. It was the only sensible explanation.

Of course, it was also the explanation that told John he’d just been kidnapped by a madman with a gun, which was both extremely dangerous and bad news for any escape plans he might have had.

Then again, it hadn’t exactly been on his to-do list to be arrested for murder and walk away with what was likely an armed and delusional criminal.

He’d have to go along with it for now.

“Right,” John murmured, taking a step back to let Moran lead the way. He glanced over towards the deserted streets, wondering how far across the open road he’d get before he got shot.

Moran rolled his eyes and landed a hand on John’s back, shoving him forwards. He couldn’t help a smug grin at the flinch he felt go through John’s body on contact. “Just get in, alright?”

John’s heart was pounding by the time they got to the doorway just a few seconds later; being in the hands of a professional criminal was one thing, but being held at gunpoint by one that belonged in a hospice was altogether twice as terrifying. He was just waiting for the psychotic breakdown.

“Jesus, would you calm down? Your back’s getting sweaty,” Sebastian muttered, pulling his hand off as they stepped through to the reception. “It’s over there.”

John was hardly paying attention. He was still staring at the inside of the building. It really was a fully-functioning bowling alley, only nobody was behind the counter. Lights were on and flashing and all of the lanes were lit up, each with bowling balls of all colours laid out neatly in front of the benches. All that was missing was the people. Well, and the music, but John didn’t exactly _miss_ the painful music that came with bowling.

“John,” Moran snapped, smacking his arm impatiently.

“Ow,” John yelped, glaring up at Sebastian. “What sort of office is this supposed to be?”

 _“This_ isn’t the office, you idiot.” Sebastian rolled his eyes and clamped his hands on John’s shoulders, steering him around to a door in the corner that was marked with a silver plate that read ‘PRIVATE’. John had to admit, he was relieved.

“Upstairs, then?” John tried, glancing around once more while he still could.

Sebastian offered nothing more than a grunt in reply.

“What about the people?” John prompted, trying to turn to see Moran.

“People? What people?” Sebastian pulled a card (John assumed it was ID) out of his pocket and held it up to the black sensor pad by the door.

“The customers. It’s a bowling alley, looks functional – where are the bowlers?” John pushed the door open, revealing a staircase. He just managed to swallow an inconvenienced groan, and began to climb.

“Why would there be customers?” Moran said, sounding genuinely baffled at the concept.

John had to force himself to keep going and not stop to turn around and stare. “Generally people use bowling alleys to bowl,” he explained. Once he got to the top of the staircase he tried the door; locked.

“Oh.” Sebastian stepped up and reached down past John to unlock the door. “I see. No, it’s a private one. My,” he paused, trying to think of the word. “My friend. He likes bowling, that’s why I chose this place.”

Sebastian pushed the door open and gestured for John to go in ahead with a clearly mocking sweep of his arm.

John had actually planned on saying something – probably in question to who had wanted the alley and why Moran’s had bought it for a ‘friend’ – but his voice caught in his throat as soon as he stepped through the door and looked around.

The office didn’t seem too showy at first, especially not in comparison to its main feature downstairs. It was on the large side and had one wall made up of panels of tinted windows. There were a couple of bookshelves, a plain rug underneath a wall-mounted television, and a desk with no accommodation for visitors except the small sofa on the opposite side of the room. The basics such as the furnishings were all John could manage to register when he first came in, mainly due to the guest sat on said small sofa.

His footsteps faltered. Moran shoved him a bit further in so he could lock the door behind them.

“Fucking hell, Jim, I thought I told you to wait until I fetched you,” John heard him mutter.

John, for one, was still struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. It was one thing having to accept the existence of a creature that was half man and half deer, but being thrust into the path of something that seemed to be half man and half wolf just a week after? Too much.

He tried his best to ask at least what was going on. Only the first syllable made it out coherently, and he was subsequently steered and planted onto the sofa next to the thing. He swallowed.

It was no bigger than John himself but infinitely more terrifying. It _(he?,_ John thought) had grinned in response to what Sebastian had said, and put its sharp teeth on full display for John to enjoy as he saw fit. They were odd teeth, really. John gathered that they were more human than wolf, but much sharper once they reached the canines and back. He didn’t spend very long dwelling on them, instead letting his eyes take in the black-furred canine ears, legs, and clawed fingernails. This one seemed a lot more animalistic than his Fawnlock. The black eyes were certainly a bit more unnerving than Fawnlock’s rich brown.

A low, purring growl rumbled through their company’s barely-fuzzed chest, and John jumped. He swallowed, tearing his eyes from the clawed fingers and clenching his own into fists to stop them from shaking. His jaw tightened as he turned to Moran again, gaze still locked instinctively on the wolf-man, who couldn’t seem to stop staring at him like he was making some cracking prey.

“Wh-what… Who… How…” John tried and failed several times to make a sentence. By the time he’d gathered himself again, Sebastian had settled into his chair at his desk and was grinning at the pair of them. John’s fist ached to feel Moran’s jaw dislocating. Instead, he jerked a finger to his side. “What’s that?”

Sebastian stuck out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout and rested his chin in his palm. “Aw. Little Johnny scared of dogs?”

John jumped again at an enraged yap that tore from the creature’s throat. Sebastian simply licked his teeth behind his lips and continued.

“Whoops. Sorry. I meant wolves.” He sighed and leant back in his chair again. He was obviously waiting for something, but John couldn’t for the life of him think of what he could be expecting.

“Why did you call him Jim?” he blurted, risking a glance back to his side. The wolf-man looked amused. When he looked back, so did Sebastian.

“That’s his name,” Moran shrugged, smiling briefly at Jim. The answer only filled John’s head with a dozen more questions, but Moran didn’t seem to be willing to let him talk any more. “I was going to break this to you slowly, John, I really was, but some this giant twat here clearly decided that my methods of dealing with things weren’t good enough. Said giant twat will now attempt to eat my hand tonight while I sleep for saying that, but whatever.” John was getting lost very quickly. “My point is I wanted to strike a deal with you.”

It took a full minute for John to catch up, and even then he didn’t see any of these points linking. Ever. Being honest, the next bit didn’t help at all, either.

“I’m sorry?” he muttered, his voice breaking from pure surprise.

“Well,” Moran said casually, seeming to vaguely assess the figure of his friend before turning his attention back to John. He had a greasy smile on his lips that John found himself even closer to wanting to punch than before. “I know about your faun.”


	13. Chapter 13

The blood drained from John’s face. He felt like a bit of prat now, having clung to the idea that maybe it was all just a big coincidence. Just a big coincidence that Moran had wanted him to meet his half-human, half-animal friend. Wasn’t like John had one, too. Definitely not.

Still, they were crazy to think that John would just admit outright that he was sharing a bed with an impossible myth of a creature.

“A faun,” John repeated, swallowing again. He tried a little smile, a little laugh. He hoped it didn’t sound as forced and nervous as he thought it sounded. “As in, um. As in a baby deer?” He laughed again. “Look, mate, I know what they say about country bumpkins, but—”

“No,” Moran said. Somehow, the gentle syllable still held enough of a threat that John cut himself off, the faded smile slipping from his face. There were a few more seconds of silence.

“No? ‘No’ what? I don’t understand.” John steeled himself. His eyes hardened, his jaw set; he wasn’t going down without a fight, even if said fight was more of a pathetic excuse of a scuffle. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he heard a quiet snort of laughter next to him. He didn’t let himself turn around.

“Please, John. Don’t be difficult.” John had to question how Sebastian had made it sound like John was the one in the wrong.

“I don’t understand,” John insisted, sitting up a bit. He saw Moran’s gaze sweep over him, and a tiny bubble of victory rose in his chest – at least he’d made him think twice. Perhaps there was hope after all.

The wolf-man growled again, and when John jumped and turned he was glaring at Sebastian. John took a deep breath as he saw Sebastian’s face harden when he looked back at him.

“You’re a liar,” he said quietly. Suddenly he looked a lot less docile. Suddenly he looked like a _businessman_ , and a dirty one at that. “You’re a liar, John, and my friend and I don’t like people who try and lie to us.”

 _Us._ Well, that was strange, but John didn’t have any space left in his brain to think anything more about it, because only a madman would try and create a business partner from a wolf.

“What do you want?” John asked, fists tightening again. “Just tell me what you’re after.”

Sebastian continued to stare at John, but now his face was blank except for the faint glare in the furrow of his eyebrows. John didn’t even look at ‘Jim’. He didn’t think his stomach would be able to take any more twists.

“I’m getting really sick of repeating myself,” Moran said, eyes locked on John’s.

“You want to make a deal, I get that, but what deal? What could I ever give you?” John’s heart was speeding up again as he saw Jim lick his lips and lean forwards a little more. “I don’t have anything. I swear I don’t have anything.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” Sebastian argued with a little shrug. He put his feet up on his desk and scratched at his chin. “Retired war veteran with episodes of PTSD and absolutely no proof of where he is at any given time? I could use that. I could use that a _lot.”_

“I don’t understand,” John said again, this time through gritted teeth.

Sebastian offered an empty smile. “Okay. I’ll explain it simply for you.” He settled his hands on his stomach. “I put your face on that photo and sent it to the police.”

“You _what?”_ John shrieked, standing up, balled fists at his side and shaking again. He was pulled back down by a clawed hand at his shoulder and a stern growl.

“Well, I needed you here. Seemed the fastest way to have you fetched by the police. They’d been looking for a culprit and they were about to arrest one of mine.” Moran laughed softly and shook his head as if it were a fond memory. “Couldn’t let that happen. My employees are sparse enough as it is.”

“Wait,” John said, shaking his head. “Just wait a second. You edited my face onto a CCTV still and got me arrested just so I could come and have a little _chat_ with you and your _dog?”_

John stood up again, with much less pleasant intentions this time, and was dragged back down by an even harder grip and a louder growl. The claws stayed digging into his shoulder wound this time, but he didn’t feel them.

“I don’t believe this,” he continued, quieter this time, though it was more out of shock. “I don’t believe it. Don’t the police know it’s a fake?”

“If they did, would you ever have gotten here in the first place? Honestly. Think before you speak.” Sebastian looked offended. He pulled open a drawer and lit a cigarette, looking even calmer than ever in the presence of John’s rage. “I told you I’m a professional.”

“You keep saying that,” John muttered, still not sure he believed it. “Professional what?”

“Assassin,” came the reply, quick and easy as anything.

John felt himself go limp. He didn’t know what was happening any more. What had happened to the sweet little cottage he lived in, and that picture of the perfect blue sky that he’d been so pathetically proud of? God, he felt sick, but he couldn’t tell if it was anxiety or homesickness. He’d have bet on both.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Sebastian said around his cigarette. The smoke was already gathering near the ceiling above him. He didn’t get any real response, but John’s expression suggested that maybe he was still working some things out. “Would you like me to elaborate?”

“Please,” John squeaked, thankful that the iron grip on his bad shoulder had finally been relinquished.

“I’ve proven to you already the things I can do. I could ruin your life in the blink of an eye at any time I choose, and, even better, you don’t even have to be in the city for me to do it. All you’ve got to do is cooperate.” He took another drag of his cigarette. John continued to frown at him – evidently, he’d begun to understand. “And if you don’t – well, that’s what Jim’s for. Did you know that a lone wolf is capable of bringing down a bison?”

Sebastian’s eyes widened with his next little smile, lit up at the exciting little piece of trivia.

Or perhaps he was excited about what he was implying.

 _Fawnlock_.

Jim was looking very smug.

“Are you seeing how this is all tying together now?” Moran asked, putting his cigarette back in his mouth and tapping his fingertips together under his chin.

John nodded slowly. “But there’s one thing you still haven’t told me. Two things, really. What do you want?” He spoke slower, making sure every word got across.

“Oh, John,” Sebastian breathed, putting a hand to his heart. “I’m wounded to think you’re still not listening to me. After everything we’ve been through.”

“Just tell me,” John snapped. He dug his fingernails into his palms in an attempt to remain calm, because his shoulder really couldn’t take another squeeze that hard.

“All I want is you,” Moran said with a faint smile. “I want you on standby.”

“On standby? What?” John shook his head, refusing to look at Jim as he snorted again.

“You don’t think I’m just going to milk you for a few bob and let you go on your way, do you?” Sebastian almost laughed at the idea. “No, I’m planning on using you. Every last bit of you. If you agree, I’ll even wipe your police record for you. I already stopped their property search so they wouldn’t find your gun. My little treat. What do you say, hm? A favour for a favour.”

John hesitated. He didn’t want to think about it. How could he be expected to agree to this? It was all kinds of fucked up on all kinds of levels, yet still he saw a very clear answer that he’d hate himself for giving.

“What do you want me for?” he asked quickly, his voice as rough as his breathing.

“Mm, I’m not sure yet,” Moran answered thoughtfully, glancing over John again. “I’m sure Jim can think of something creative. If not, the police will be more than willing to arrest someone in your situation for much less than today’s reasoning. Think about it.”

John hardly needed to think about it. War veteran – that meant violent to the authorities, especially because he kept a gun. PTSD meant likelihood of psychotic episodes. No proof of where he was, because he lived in the middle of bloody nowhere. And, on top of all that, he was keeping a research scientist’s wet dream in his kitchen. He was a pathetically easy target to pin a murder on, really.

But he had someone to protect.

What sort of soldier would he be if he surrendered?

“Fine,” he said. His voice was steadier than it had been since he’d walked in. “Yes. Fine.”

Moran put his feet down, and John could see him staving off either an ‘I knew it’ or an ‘Excellent’. He couldn’t tell which.

“Great,” Moran said softly. He stood up and unlocked the door, leaving it open as he stepped back to lean against his desk. Jim sat back with a little teasing smile on his face, and Sebastian cocked his head in the direction of the sofa. “He gets cranky without his afternoon bowl. I knew I should never have introduced him to it, but what can I say? I’m a fantastic friend. Now, piss off. You’ll know when I need you. Take some cash from the till to get you home, and it’ll be done by this evening.”

John stood up, but his steps faltered and it took him a second to remember how to walk. On his way past, Sebastian leant in and muttered near his ear.

“Pleasure doing business with you, doctor. Get home safe, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't shoot me until the notes at the very end, I beg.


	14. Chapter 14

John found it difficult to leave. He supposed he was in shock, though it didn’t feel fitting that this time last year he’d been happily throwing himself into the crossfire in war-torn Afghanistan and now he got a bit of a fright from a friendly (if extremely threatening) chat.

Unfortunately, the realisation of shock didn’t help him to overcome it. He got stuck halfway down the little staircase leading back to the bowling alley, his knees weakening to the extent that he had to slide down the wall and have a sit down for a moment. He put his face in his hands and breathed hard and deep to stave off any threats of a panic attack that may have tried to strike. When he finally felt a bit better, he could hear voices floating down from the room just a few steps up.

“Go on, then. What do you want to do with him?” Sebastian.

John didn’t hear him get a reply.

“Come on, this is your chance. You’re always being so fucking grumpy about not being able to take direct control, and here’s your opportunity. Are you gonna take it or not?”

That time, he got a growl.

“Oh, come off it, Jim. Finally you get your chance to scare someone and you try and scare me?”

Another growl, this one more displeased than anything.

“Right. Well, I think it’s time you told me what you’ve been planning now.”

 _Planning_. John frowned, lifted his head. It couldn’t have meant what he thought it meant.

There was silence, and then Sebastian puffed out a snort of laughter. “Come on, tell me.” A beat. “Alright, I’ll work it out. Oh, don’t look like that, I’m just as smart as you. Don’t even think about it.”

John dropped his chin into his hand, frustrated. He wished they could just get to the damn point, at least so he could get up and leave before they found him eavesdropping.

“Let me see,” Moran continued. His voice sounded closer, and John flinched, ready to get up, but as he kept speaking it became clear that he was simply walking around the room. “You found the faun first, I get that much. Does he know you… Exist?” Another brief pause, which John uses to remember how to breathe again. “Okay, so you discover the faun and keep him quiet. Then… What?”

John already knew. He was sure he already knew, but maybe, just maybe, they’d say something easy to listen to.

“Well, it was you, wasn’t it? All along.”

What? What the hell did that mean?

“You chased him to Watson’s place.”

Oh.

“You chased him up the tree.”

 _Oh_.

“And then you pushed him.”

Oh, dear.

“And then you waited for them to cosy up, and you brought them to me, because you knew exactly what I’d do.”

Well, John was certainly going to make sure his gun was clean when he got home.

“I should be annoyed at you for playing me like this, I guess, but… Mm. I can’t. I’m bloody impressed.”

John gulped down the rage balling in his throat at the growled chuckle that came in the next pause.

“Just one more thing, Jim,” Moran said. John had to hope it was the last thing. He wasn’t sure he could stay any longer without barging back in and throwing a few punches. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

John clenched his jaw.

“All of this, it wasn’t for me. You wouldn’t have just turned up with a beautiful business proposition and given me the keys to be kind. Maybe something for you, maybe not. I don’t know. But that’s not all, is it? That’s not the whole plan. Am I right?” Sebastian still sounded tentative, as if he really wasn’t sure.

John heard another faint snort of laughter. He stood up and jogged down the rest of the stairs just in time to hear Moran mutter, with a smile in his voice, “Fucking knew it.”

He grabbed a handful of cash from the till and ran.

 

* * *

 

John didn’t have his keys. He remembered as soon as he got out of the cab and started walking, but there was nothing for it. He paid the driver and took off running, unable to get the churning in his stomach to abate. Fawnlock was in danger, he knew it.

He had to slow to a walk halfway to his cottage, because no man could run that far, but he found another burst of energy when he saw the little nook in the side of the road where the footpath was. He started running again, lungs burning. He ignored them as he sprinted up to the house – lights off, but it was just turning evening, it was okay – and pounded on the door.

_Please be in, please be in, please be in._

A minor hesitation in his thoughts.

_Please know how to open the door._

Just as that thought struck, there was a twitch to his left. His head turned so fast his neck clicked, and he bit back a grimace when he saw who was at the window.

_“John!”_

Fawnlock leapt on the spot, hitting his antlers on the window with a jolt as he shouted.

“Fawnlock,” John breathed, his face cracking into a smile. As far as he could see, Fawnlock wasn’t hurt. Good. That was good. “Door. Open the door.”

He pointed frantically in the direction of the door, knocking on it for emphasis. Fawnlock’s eyes flickered to the door, and then he disappeared. John stepped forwards again. He could hear a gentle scuffle and some scratching on the other side of the wood, and could only hope that Fawnlock was trying to figure out how to open the door. It was a good sign that it took him so long; at least nobody else had gotten in.

Eventually, with a great swing, Fawnlock wrenched the door open and threw himself into John’s arms. “John,” he growled firmly.

“I know. It’s alright, I’m here, I’m fine. It’s fine.”

John hugged Fawnlock back and muttered the comforts near his ear, his head positioned just so his face was protected from the sharp ends that he could see had scratched his window.

After a moment he pried Fawnlock from his torso and ushered him inside, closing the door behind him. The house was cold, but, Jesus, it was good to be home. Fawnlock was stuck to his side like a limpet as he went to turn the heating on and stash the money he’d taken.

“Are you alright?” he asked as he moved, looking Fawnlock over. “Did anybody come? Anybody at the door?”

He gestured back to the front door to make his point, not sure how much Fawnlock understood from his two days of solitude. He just shook his head, and John nodded.

“Okay. Good.” He smiled slightly. “It’s alright, I’m here now. I’m staying.”

Fawnlock snorted, but he relaxed a little bit. Then John turned to the fridge, and he backed off a little bit. John’s hand hesitated over the handle.

“What?” he asked suspiciously, turning back to Fawnlock. Fawnlock seemed to be keeping a deliberately blank face. “What is it, what’s inside?”

Fawnlock shook his head. “I don’t know,” he tried, repeating from the card John had written. John smiled at him in return and pulled open the door to the empty fridge. He stared for a moment.

Everything had gone. Well, not everything – Fawnlock had found the kindness in his heart to leave the inedible parts of the foods in there, such as the bruised areas and plastic packaging of the vegetables. On any other day, John would have been annoyed. Or, at least, asked what the hell Fawnlock had done with the raw meat that had been in there. Today he didn’t care.

He turned around and shut the door, not looking back. Fawnlock looked confused.

“Early bedtime, I think. Come on.”

John took Fawnlock’s hand on the way past him and led him to the bedroom. Then he stripped his trousers, chucked on some pyjamas, and crawled into bed. _Duvet. Pillow. Mattress. Beautiful._

Fawnlock, of course, curled into John straight away, clinging to his legs. John pushed his fingers into the knotted hair and held him close.

He didn’t care what they’d ask of him. Let them throw what they could at him, he’d do anything. Anything to keep Fawnlock safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Wasn't going to post this chapter tonight, but I've had several amazing ideas for the sequel, so I had to. It might not get written for a while, but it will definitely get done as soon as I'm finished with the next fic I'm writing.  
> Thank you so much for all the comments, kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, anything else I've missed. You've been lovely and given me some great ideas.  
> Stay tuned and comment if there's anything you'd really like to see next time. Go safe, friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Introducing my new [Tumblr](http://theandersaur.tumblr.com) for AO3! No exclusive stuff, but any messages can be sent here and, eventually, there'll be some fic update notifications posted there, too. We'll see how it goes.


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